


Goretober 2020 [BaTIM Edition]

by ThePrincePeach



Series: Goretober 2020 [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Blood and Gore, Corpses, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: Español
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrincePeach/pseuds/ThePrincePeach
Summary: The BaTIM Set for Eiramew's Goretober 2020! Not every prompt will be here, just the BaTIM ones!
Series: Goretober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949032
Kudos: 3





	Goretober 2020 [BaTIM Edition]

Henry stepped over another body, over his body. Recently, they weren’t melting into ink but were acting more like normal corpses. Was there such thing as a normal corpse, though? Henry didn’t want to think about it, yet was forced to every time he looked down and saw his own face staring up at him. He winced. Did he really die this many times? Should he do something with them? Some had appeared to be decaying for years, maybe longer, while others looked fresh, and more in between. An ooze covered skeleton laid in a heap halfway in an ink pool, while a body that still felt warm leaned against the wall and stared up to an unforgiving God with fish-like eyes. 

He forced his eyes to stare ahead, gripping onto the handle of a wrench until his bruised knuckles were flushed white; Henry trudged on. He wasn’t allowed to stop. How many loops had he gone through in this Hell of a place? 300 turned to 400 turned to 800 turned to 1400 turned to 3500… Again and again. Henry held onto the terrible idea that eventually the place would be so filled with his own corpses that progress would be hindered, despite trying not to. He wondered how many of him were still alive in this place? How many were dying now? Last time he died, he heard Malice screaming in terror at finding a corpse she seemingly forgot about. When he died, did he truly die? Or did he just take the place of a Henry moments before death occurred? Thinking about this hurt his head and made him dizzy. 

So many bodies, most shared the same sickly grey complexion and fish-like eyes (the ones that had eyes, anyway). Some had blue lips and swollen throats, others were covered too much in ink to see if they ever had a face to begin with. Sometimes, insides were strewn on the outside. In a small closet, Henry assumed that corpse had been trapped inside with an ink creature, blood and ink were splattered on every wall, up the ceiling, across the floor, guts to match. The door, despite being wide open, had claw marks over the inside. If Henry looked too close, he could see a fingernail lodged in the wood.

He stepped over a body torn in two at the chest, the agonized expression dulled on the gaunt, pale face – Henry felt its pain. His pain? It. His corpses, he dubbed, were an ‘it’. They were not people, they were things. Part of him wanted to believe that they never were people and only props. Some wounds were obvious signs of the death that followed; ripped apart, stabbed, beaten to death, strangled, drained via needles, thrown or dropped at great heights or greater speeds, some had limbs crushed, some had teeth marks and chunks removed, some had the weapon of choice still embedded into the body. Henry felt himself getting sick when he passed by a room and noticed one hanging with that familiar chair toppled to the side. The question dawned on him suddenly; how many of these deaths were by his own hand? How many were the beasts of the studio? There were no rats here, so what was nibbling on his own cold, stiff flesh? 

Ask a silly question, get a silly answer. The phrase came to mind when he realized ink was creeping along the walls. He wasn’t surprised anymore. He turned around slowly to see the beast was, the ink demon, hearing its chittering purrs of a breath echo through the hallway. The demon was never a person to begin with, Henry dubbed it as an ‘it’ to seemingly prove to himself that he had some control left in this situation. It was a comfort thing.

The man stumbled back as it caught up to him quickly, gasping, flailing back as the ground behind him gave out. Floorboards were weak when soaked with ink for thirty or so years. He screamed as he fell, arms flailing and hands grabbing at nothing. He wanted it to stop. He just wanted a break. Anything, he wanted the quiet back. He looked down and saw bodies on the approaching floor. He screamed, shielded his head with his arms, and landed with a nasty ‘thump’. 

Henry stepped over another body, over his body. Recently, they weren’t melting into ink but were acting more like normal corpses. Was there such thing as a normal corpse, though?


End file.
